The Angelic Allegory
by fffricative
Summary: When Sherlock is given a case file that's out of his world, and The Doctor finds a companion just as intelligent as himself, how could the pair resist working one huge case together?
1. Chapter 1

'We've had another one' Lestrade stated simply, throwing a small amount of case notes across to Holmes, who was perched near the window, looking out onto the street. Catching them adeptly, Sherlock quickly glanced over the images that adorned the front cover.

'Yes it's the same man, though his method is ingenious. If I were any more stupid I'd say he fades from existence, but that can't be it, there's something more.' Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and turned in frustration as he though aloud. 'Seven break-ins, one image stolen each time, none of which are related, aside from them all being slightly blue in colour… and each time he leaves a code behind. This doesn't tie together!'

Lestrade looked over at Sherlock's colleague, John Watson, in surprise. This was the first time that he'd seen the consulting detective confused since they had begun working together, which made the sudden blank in Holmes' knowledge almost baffling.

'Wait… wait… it's an arrangement. Twenty-one numbers, divided by the seven images, leaves three numbers for each image that's been stolen. Take every first and second numbers as grid references, and the third as the image that was stolen… line them all up on a grid…'

Sherlock grabbed several pins and began sticking copies of the stolen images on a pin board decorating Lestrade's office. A halogen light bulb, a blue, wooden garden fence, a Saint John's ambulance badge. As all the images were placed together Sherlock reached the breakthrough he desperately needed – each crime was part of a larger message.

The consulting detective grabbed his coat and scarf and turned to Lestrade.

'Get a couple of cars out looking for a blue police telephone box. 1960's. We find that and we find out thief – He wants to get caught!'

Meanwhile, on a darkened backstreet a few miles away from the police station, the Doctor waited patiently outside his trusty TARDIS. Sherlock wouldn't take longer than a day to find him, and then everything could fall into place.


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian Moran awoke groggily from his extended slumber, trying desperately to focus under the glow of the lights above him. Reaching out instinctively, he found that his usual handgun was missing from within the inside of his jacket, and his rifle was nowhere in sight. All that Moran could really see was the interior of the room he was now inside, far different from the stairwell he had just evacuated.

Moriarty's right hand man could remember brief episodes from the moments before he slipped into unconsciousness: John Watson in his sights, a gunshot from upon the hospital roof, Sherlock falling to his 'death'. However, none of his memories were concrete, they changed and adapted all the time, whenever Sebastian focused on something else the memories would be different upon their return to the forefront of his consciousness.

Jim was dead. It was the only memory that rang true. Every minute or so Moran would visualise the fall of his body, the ringing of the gunshot over city traffic. Jim was dead.

After what felt like hours, or minutes, it was hard to tell, the doors opened, breaking the silence of the room. Sebastian was uncuffed and dragged down a number of hallways to an interview room. Placed in a highly uncomfortable chair and handcuffed roughly, the would be assassin waited another unknown amount of time before his interviewer appeared around the doorway.

A rather plump man, whose shirt was far too small for his excessive girth, eased himself into the chair opposite with a sigh. He raised a pair of glasses to his face and looked over the files on the table. With a slight intake of breath the interviewer finally addressed Sebastian for the first time.

'I have two questions for you son. First, who the bleedin' 'ell are you? Second, how the hell did you get yourself into the bank of England without anyone seeing you?'

The accent was cockney, broad cockney. Moran was suddenly very interested in his current situation. He had been taking tips from his employer since becoming his second in command. Always check your surroundings, always ensure you know everything about your target, and always have a bargaining chip. Moran had all three.

He was in a police station, 1960s or 70s. How or why Sebastian wasn't sure, but that wasn't what mattered. He now had an idea of how his situation would pan out. They could question him as long and as brutally as they liked, until they got what they wanted to know. He could ask for a lawyer, not that he knew any in this time period, but he had more chance of defending himself on his own.

His target was from north London, with a working class background and two children. The photograph, hidden behind the pens in his breast pocket, was just about visible through the sweat due to the glare of the lighting. The figures in the photograph were too skinny to be himself and his wife, if he had a wife, and children were the next most likely figures. He was also sticking far too close to police guidelines to be working on the interview alone. By how often the officer would glance towards the door he was on a tight leash, and being very careful not to anger his employers.

Finally, he had his bargaining chip. The police needed to know how he got into the bank, so they would have to play by Moran's rules. This would be fun, not a challenge.


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor smirked to himself as he heard footsteps in the alleyway, since he was already fully aware of Sherlock's presence nearby. As Holmes and Watson rounded another corner and faced him, the time lord gave a few echoing claps of recognition and beamed at the pair widely.

'Hello Sherly, good to see you. I've been following your work for years now.'

'I'd say the same for you.' Sherlock said flatly, 'Only it took about an hour or so to solve your riddle.'

'Yes, but you still got stuck didn't you, which makes me special, worth sticking around for.'

The consulting detective had to admit, the idea of meeting someone as intelligent as himself had been novel, and he clearly hadn't shown just how far his intelligence reached yet, perhaps palming this new figure wasn't the best idea yet.

'Firstly, I want to know your name.' Sherlock ordered.

'Is he always this blunt?' The Doctor asked John enquiringly, addressing the former army doctor for the first time.

'Near enough, yeah.' John replied, leaning heavily against his cane.

Ever since Sherlock's faked plunge from St Bartholomew's Hospital, John's psychosomatic limp had returned to plague him. Even following Sherlock's return to London, and subsequent reveal of his technique to his friend, John had been unable to shake the emotional baggage causing his ailment, and Sherlock was never any good with social issues.

'I'm The Doctor, just The Doctor.' Explained the Galifreyan. 'I'm a Time Lord, I'm a little over one thousand years old, and you know for a fact that I'm not lying.'

'Sherlock, he can't be serious.' John implored.

'Oh no, he is John, no perspiration whatsoever, and he looked me straight in the eye. The only time he looked away was when he remembered his age, which is plausible when you're as old as he is, but he looked down to his left when remembering, which when you're right handed generally indicates he could be telling the truth. Technically it all adds up.'

'Oh you are good.' The Doctor said, in very slight awe. 'But how did you know I'm right handed?'

'Finger prints on the crime scenes; you always opened doors with your right hand. You didn't need to open doors, but you wanted me to know which hand you prefer…'

'Oh very, very clever. And your second question?'

'The disappearing act, it's like nothing I've ever seen before. If anything I'd say it was out of this world but that's unlikely. How did you do it?'

'Now now Sherly, I wouldn't say unlikely, but it's definitely out of this world.'

The Doctor let out another slight smirk as he clicked his fingers, on his right hand of course, and the doors to the TARDIS swung open, bathing the consulting detective and his partner in light from the console room.

'I need your help on a subject that not even you could solve alone Sherlock. You need me as much as I need you, because you never did find the man that should have killed John Watson.'

Sherlock frowned slightly at the time lord's point. He was right.


	4. Chapter 4

'If you don't start giving us some proper answers, I'm going to have to start getting some younger boys in here. You know what they can do to you right? Horrible, terrible things lad.'

'I tell you what, Harry was it? If your men can get one piece of information out of me, they deserve the lot.'

Moran's voice was dripping with content; it was entirely intentional, to either scare or convince his interrogator, Harry, to let his younger, more susceptible officers into the room in his place. The more time Sebastian spent talking to this 'oaf', as the assassin described him internally, the longer he was going without answers.

'Do it Harry, bring them in, see if I care. Because I'll get them, and then I'll come for you.'

A bead of sweat began to form high on the officer's brow, before the eventual weight of the perspiration sent it tumbling down past his cheeks, and onto the desk. The policeman that should have been leading the interrogation now felt uneasy. There was something unnerving about his eyes, the way they were entirely focused on him – never for one moment wavering from him.

'Then after I'm done with you, it'll be the kids. I'll leave their mum though Harry… has to be a legacy, always a legacy.'

'You're a bloody lunatic!' Harry shouted, rising from his seat and grabbing at Moran's collar.

Sebastian rose as far as he could with his wrists cuffed to either side of the chair. Smirking darkly he stared his interrogator right in the eye.

'One punch, that's all I need Harry. You'll set me off and I won't ever, _ever_ stop.'

Harry released Moran, shocked with the sudden realisation that the man before him was far too dangerous to be dealt with by one officer. Making for the door, he whistled a number of men to enter the room and lead Moran back to his temporary cell. Three officers entered - all young, all wearing pristine uniforms that had never seen beat work. As the third was entering the room Harry placed a hand on his chest and issued some orders.

'… You got that Greg?'

Moran chuckled openly. Greg Lestrade being given orders by someone like Harry. He looked young, impressionable. Sebastian was looking forward to the walk back.


	5. Chapter 5

The TARDIS lurched around dangerously in the void, dodging electrical strikes from outside and tumbling further through time.

'I'm doing a quick scan for him, across all of time and space, shouldn't take too long, I should be able to spot him soon enough. Whatever's taken him, and I have a good idea what it is, will have dropped him off earlier in time… Or ripped his spine out, which does happen sometimes.'

John failed to hear anything that the Doctor had said, still standing by the door in amazement at the spectacle before him. The box had appeared so small in the back alley, yet the space inside was expansive, stretching far beyond even the large room in which he stood. Finally breaking away from his wonder, Watson struggled up the stairs onto the main control platform and began investigating the controls.

'Oh, you like it then John? I know what you're thinking, completely impossible right? That's what I do!'

The Doctor, as always, was revelling in having a new visitor to the TARDIS. At least John was giving the reaction that the Time Lord was used to, as opposed to Sherlock, who had seated himself on one of the chairs adorning the control platform and sank into though.

Entering his mind palace, Sherlock began sinking further back in time, checking every nook and cranny of his memory for a clue to Moran's location. Moran was a trained assassin, but not good enough to hide his identity from Holmes. In the run up to the meeting on St Bartholomew's Hospital, Sherlock had become aware of the three possible assassins, intending to clear up the remainder of Moriarty's mess following his faked death. However, whilst the first two assassins were easily found and rounded up (it was remarkably simple to fake another killing on their behalves), Moran seemed to have faded from existence.

Sherlock smirked a little; it explained why they were scanning through time as well as space. Whilst John had taken a long while to even accept the fact that the machine was bigger on the inside, Sherlock had already worked out how to fly the TARDIS. It was a simple system, but one the Doctor had failed to master in all the time he had been flitting around the universe.

Again, Sherlock allowed himself to slip into his consciousness, search for more clues. There were several notable criminals present in the 1900's, but only a few that would match Moran's appearance and characteristics. The consulting detective dove straight past the idea of someone such as Peter Sutcliffe; he was far too famous, far too careless, and far too evil. He dove past petty crimes, and straight out homicide. If Moran had been slipped into the past somewhere, he wouldn't commit any crimes intentionally, it would have to be forced, but completely unsolvable.

Sherlock looked up towards the other occupants of the TARDIS. Mere minutes had passed since he had begun thinking, and John was still circling the control panel. The Doctor had stepped back to soak in the atmosphere of a new traveller, laughing every so often as John made new discoveries, or stopping him from pressing a button that would crash land the machine.

'Moran's in 1963.' Sherlock stated simply.

The Doctor stretched forwards and flicked a lever, slowing the TARDIS in the void and sending it hurtling in the other direction.

'Oh and Doctor,' Holmes added, 'Thanks for trusting me to work it out by myself.'

'I was scanning for him, I told you that.'

The Doctor pointed towards his machine's viewing screen, full of Galifreyan text and symbols. Sherlock shook his head a little as he indicated a small button aside the vortex manipulator. Pressing it, the TARDIS came to a quiet halt in a London back alley, 1963.

'Ah Doctor, you never pressed the on button for the scanner.'


End file.
